Things had become hazy. At some point Rennic had returned and begun drinking with them, but Loveless remained in her room above. Tarfel was still not back; Chel rather blithely assumed he’d turn up eventually. The daylight had gone, the room lit with candles and lamps kindled by unseen attendants, and the air had become chill. Chel handled this by increasing his intake of Special Drink, which tasted mostly of spiced fruit and smelled of alchemy. From somewhere beyond came the bells, the shouts, the incessant whine of the wind, the occasional rumble, like distant thunder, making the bottles jingle in their crates. Nobody seemed to pay it any heed, so Chel did his best to ignore it too.

‘Which is why …’ Lemon said, paused, drank, resumed. ‘Which is why the wee bear remains as useful as a one-legged man at an arse-kicking contest.’

‘Thank you?’ Chel said, brow furrowed. He’d put the plum stone down somewhere, and couldn’t remember where.

‘Aye, right, so here’s the thing, right. Why are you called “bear”? You’re not exactly bearish, are you? You’re more of a …’

‘Faun,’ Rennic said, then sniggered into his cup.

Chel coloured. ‘I thought we didn’t ask for intimates.’

‘Aye, well, thing is, could be an army of red bastards rolls into town in a day or two and does for the bunch of us, and I’d hate to go into the beyond with this bugging me.’

Foss sipped at his cup, reclined, replete, eyes half-closed. ‘It started with your sister, friend? That’s what the prince said.’

‘It did. But listen, tell you what: you tell me where your names come from, I’ll tell you mine. Fair?’

‘Oho, he’s a tricksy one, this wee fella.’

‘Deal,’ said Foss.

‘Deal,’ Chel repeated. ‘So what does “Foss” mean?’

Foss eased back against the cushions. ‘It’s an old word, this one. Very old.’

‘It means “wall”,’ Lemon announced with a proud grin. ‘Back from your pit days, right, Fossy? No bastard could touch him.’

Foss raised a hand, a pained look on his face, eyes open but downcast. ‘No, friend. Not quite.’

‘Eh?’

‘It means ‘ditch’. It means something that … lies down.’ He rubbed at his beard, running his fingers over his jaw, feeling for something beneath. ‘But I got it in my pit days, and I’ve kept it since. To keep me honest.’

Chel blinked, unsure of what had happened. ‘Has it worked?’

Foss stared into the middle distance for a moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. ‘Yes, friend. I think it has.’

Chel nodded, bemused, then switched to his neighbour. ‘And what about Lemon?’

She shrugged. ‘Nothing to it, no great story.’

‘Really? Really? I find that a … challenge to believe.’

She spread her hands. ‘My real name is Lennon. One of these pricks misheard, or pretended to, and that was that.’

‘Lennon? Lennon of Clyden?’

‘Aye.’